


Rogue

by joonfired



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road (2015), Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Accidental Plot, Crossover, F/M, I Don't Even Know, Might not, POV Furiosa (Mad Max), POV Max, The Games (Tron), isn't really a story, might be something longer, we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-04-22 00:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14296923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joonfired/pseuds/joonfired
Summary: [Tron/Fury Road]depending on how much interest this gets, I might write more, but just throwing this up here because my brain can't be stopped. If I post my odd drabbles, they seem meaningful rather than just me flailing into the fandom void by myself





	1. Rogue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [supernoodle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernoodle/gifts).



> Furiosa faces an unpredictable challenge in the Games.

Furiosa whips her disc away into a curve of blue destruction, the targeted program shattering into a million helpless pixels. When the disc swoops back to her ready grip, following the path she had set it on, the roar of the crowd drowns everything . . . even her thoughts.

She advances. She wins. And advances again. This is a cycle she feels deep in her circuiting, in the minute fibers of programming that make up her existence. This is what she was created for—to destroy.

But it was not always like this, was it? No. There is something, fleeting scraps of dusty images that cling to the furthest walls of her memory space. Furiosa sees green, rolling green that is so different from the set patterns of the Grid, fine strands swaying back and forth in a chaotic, unprogrammed sequence so random it could not have been created but _born_.

_Rogue._

The chant is not an accusation, not for her, but a scream as Furiosa advances to the next level. Her opponent stands stiffly on the other side of the transparent cube, the lines of his suit pulsing soft green. It is almost the same color as her memories, and that similarity holds her attention before she realizes that the repeating cry of “ _Rogue! Rogue! Rogue!”_ is the identity of this gamer.

Instead of arcing his disc towards her like Furiosa is prepared for, the rogue charges her physically. His feet slam against the surface of the cube, disc at the attack when he nears her. She has just enough reaction time to dip her shoulder down, curving it into the black stretch of his stomach.

They collide heavily, toppling to the ground, limbs sprawled in an awkward, uncoordinated tangle. Furiosa’s mind is spasming, wheezing with the _illogical_ tactics of the rogue program, that she barely rolls away from the downward sweep of the disc still gripped tightly in his hand. The slicing green skids along the glass floor, leaving a darkened trail of destruction.

The roar of the crowd is muted as Furiosa flips to her feet, whirling on the rogue. She leaps into a spin to release her disc, the torque of her body adding heavier momentum. She sees the calculated path of the disc in her mind, sees the known ways the rogue could avoid it . . . which are highly improbable statistics.

But once more the rogue program surprises her, taking an unpredictable course of action. He uses the edge of his disc to block the cutting arc of hers, throwing the return passage off course and glancing at an odd angle against the cube walls so that it’s not his disc that Furiosa must worry about hitting her—it’s _hers_.

As she scrambles to retrieve her fallen disc, the rogue throws his. She runs up the wall and flips over it, landing in a successful crouch . . . and that’s when the rogue tackles her again. Their bodies slam into the cube, and Furiosa must reach into the farthest corners of her mind for defensive tactics.

She still hasn’t retrieved her disc, and she feels the loss of it as she dodges the strikes of the rogue’s held disc. Her vision is blur of green and black, her audio a static blur. She lashes out with a fist, the attack crude and weak, but it’s all she’s got. And will _not_ let herself be derezzed; not without fighting with every bit of programming and data that she’s got.

Furiosa’s flailing strike hits the rogue on the helmet, glancing off the curved surface, but the power of it is enough to send him reeling back a little. That bit of space allows her to twist away and reaching for her disc—

—but then the rogue is on her again, shoulders jostling in blips of painful contact as both fight for the fallen disc—Furiosa for offense and the rogue for defense.

Her grasping fingers curl around the sleek edge first, the disc lighting blue with her energy. She spins around, holding it much like the rogue has, smashing it across the glass of his helmet. The clear surface cracks open under the cutting blue, so much that the edge of her disc grazes the shadowed line of the rogue’s jaw.

Something fluid and globule in shape falls from the rogue to land in a red splatter against Furiosa’s helmet. She looks at it in confusion, and her hesitation gives the rogue the chance to take the upper hand in their desperate battle for survival in the Games.

As the rogue program kicks her disc away, the round weapon skittering away across the cube floor, Furiosa recognizes what the liquid dripping across her vision is. It’s blood, unpixellated and a mark of the rogue’s true identity, as well as the explanation for his erratic, unpredictable behavior.

He’s not a program. He’s a user.

Behind the smooth glass of her helmet, under the darkened privacy of the glare protection that covers her eyes but leaves from her nose down visible, Furiosa blinks in surprise. Users are not common to the Grid; she knows of only one in history, and he has drifted away into legend.

The user brings his disc to a stop just under her chin, the burning green edge resting _just_ against the hollow of her throat and bringing a sharp, searing flash of pain. Furiosa doesn’t derezz. Instead, she just _hurts_ , agony replacing the expected burst of dissolvement.

The crowd shouts and cheers and chants, calling out a cacophony of fates for Furiosa . . . all of which the user ignores. He leans in, so close that if she twitched, the surfaces of their helmets would touch.

“ _De! Rezz!_ ” the crowd demands, calling for erasure. “ _De! Rezz!_ ”

The user replaces his disc into the holding slot on his back, getting to his feet a moment later. Furiosa lies on the ground, frozen under the fact that she has been spared as well as the truth of a user standing above her.

“ _De! Rezz!_ ” the crowd screams. They want one of them to finish the game, the user an obvious favorite since he had managed to defeat Furiosa’s unbroken winning streak. “ _De! Rezz!_ ”

Furiosa gets warily to her feet, ready for any surprises from the user. Her programming doesn’t understand nor is it truly compatible with his unpredictability. As a user, he is not bound by codes like she is. He can move better than the greatest hacker, all doors of the Grid open to him.

When she is fully upright, the user gestures at her. His features are blurry behind the cracks spiderwebbing across his helmet, but the red of his blood stands out like a malfunction.

“You’re bleeding,” he says. He must mean her pixels are burnt, the black edges falling away from the wound.

But when Furiosa touches the pained stretch across her neck, her gloves come away slick. At first, she thinks it’s from the user, but a quick glance in the reflective floor of the cube shows a seeping crimson wound.

The last thing she realizes before the two of them are shocked into blackness by the security override in the cube, is that there are two users on the Grid . . . and Furiosa is one of them.


	2. Transported

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max enters the Grid

The last thing Max remembers was tripping over a wire—such a mundane detail at first, but now vibrating with importance—and then falling to the ground in a flurry of half-grunted curses and reaching limbs, all of it ending in a blinding flash. He sorts these facts into different shapes inside his head, trying to find the answering shape in their confusing puzzle. But there is nothing he knows that can bridge the gap between walking in the world he knows . . . and now standing in the one he has found himself in. 

He cranes his head up at the stretching buildings outlined in flickering blue, like cheap green-screen effects. There is a buzz in his ears that he can't place but thinks that he should be able to, the label of it dancing just out of reach at the blurred edges of his mind. He knows this isn't a dream, though a part of him is screaming that this can't be anything  _but_  a dream, because everything is just too precise, too real, for this to be the product of his imagination.


	3. Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now this . . . this Max can do.

The woman leaped into the air, pixels shimmering underneath her. They coalesced into the glowing diagram of a motorcycle, both she and the vehicle hanging in the air for a moment. And then with a burst of blurred imaging and an impact that rattled the floor under his feet, the design hit the stadium fully formed and she took off, trailing neon blue. The sound of the cycle's engine was a computerized hum, fading into the distance.

For the first time since he'd entered this strange, digital world, Max smiled.

"Now this," he murmured, muscles tensing as he prepared to run, "this I can do."

He sprinted forward, the flexible sole of his boots slamming rhythmically against the hard, glassy surface of the stadium. He pulled the baton in his hands apart, just like he'd seen the person before him do. And jumped.

Max could  _feel_ the cycle taking shape beneath him, light flickering in the side of his vision as the glowing diagram formed into the sleek lines of the machine. When it curved up underneath him, the seat was molded precisely to him, more secure feeling than any safety harness he'd known. When the wheels hit the ground, his helmet visor pixeled down, fogging slightly with his breath.

He rotated the throttle forward, gunning the cycle. It responded instantly to him, accelerating forward at a crazy speed that would have felt more dangerous in reality than in here. This challenge wasn't looking too hard now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these are obviously super scattered drabbles set in my Tron/Fury Road crossover. Might actually try for something with continuity, but until then, enjoy the randomness


	4. Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max contemplates freedom; Furiosa is doubtful.

They were safe, Max had been told. They were hidden away from the tangle of lights and shattered bodies, from the chaos where he’d been birthed into this digital world. Things felt quiet here, but too quiet—like everything had been paused and was just waiting to be set into motion.  
Safe felt dangerous.  
He stood in the darkened hall, shoulders itching where his disc rested between them. It was as if he’d grown wings that were not wings, but instead a weapon that was also an extension of his body. He reached back and took the disc off, inspecting it in front of him and running his fingers over the curve of it, almost disappointed he couldn’t find a pulse.  
“We’re safe here,” Furiosa said from behind him.  
He put his disc back before he turned to her as she walked up. The darkness of the suit that clung to her narrow body blended into the shadows of the hall, all except the blue lines running down the sides. Those stood out, turning her skin a ghastly shade of pale.  
Max huffed a sound of disagreement at her statement, to which she tilted her head at.  
“We are safe,” she emphasized.  
But it was as if in trying to reassure him, she was finding doubt of her own. Max grinned at her, the action probably more terrifying than he intended because of the lighting cast by their suits.  
“Are we safe,” he said, “or pushed aside?”  
“Do you want to die?” she challenged him. “I’ve gone this long without de-rezzing. I’m not going to throw it away because of you.”  
“Would you throw it away from freedom?”  
He walked down the hall, around the corner where a window showed the tall stretch of light from the portal. Furiosa followed after, coming to a stop with her chin hovering by his shoulder.  
“You’re insane,” she finally stated.  
Max shrugged, for once unable to argue with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying to get back into this but I literally have no idea what plot is or how I'd enact . . . so have another random scene


End file.
